


Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap

by Mortissimo



Category: Barry (TV 2018), IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Abusive Myra Kaspbrak, Abusive Relationships, Barry-Typical Humor, But He Doesn't Show Up, Crossover, Explicit Consent, Gaslighting, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Not A Pennywise-Free Zone, Technically Comedy, no actual murder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-21
Updated: 2020-06-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:27:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24837670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mortissimo/pseuds/Mortissimo
Summary: Fresh off a perfectly simple job in Rochester, some asshole New Yorker hires Barry to kill his wife. Or not. Well, he does. But he shouldn't. Or should he? No, he definitely does. Unless he doesn't.
Relationships: Barry Berkman/Eddie Kaspbrak
Comments: 7
Kudos: 63





	Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap

**Author's Note:**

> If you got a lady and you want her gone  
> But you ain't got the guts  
> She keeps naggin' at you night and day  
> Enough to drive ya nuts  
> Pick up the phone  
> Leave her alone  
> It's time you made a stand  
> For a fee  
> I'm happy to be  
> Your back door man
> 
> I promise it's a comedy.
> 
> See notes at the end about Character Death warning.

Fuches calls as Barry is ducking out the service entrance to the hotel, gun already ditched in one of the housekeeping carts and silencer burning a hole in his pocket until he can get to another trash can further across town. 

"Hey," he answers, mildly surprised to be hearing from Fuches so soon, but Fuches is already halfway through a sentence as soon as he picks up.

"–is an unbearable asshole, so feel free to blow him off or not, I just can't shake the little nutjob and he's driving me crazy. Anyway, there's a bus ticket for you at the front desk of your hotel. It's for tomorrow morning, so if you don't want to do it, make up your mind before then and make sure you get a refund for the ticket. And make sure you tell the guy that, because he won't listen to me, and if I have to listen to him another minute I'm going to fly to New York and shoot him myself." 

"New York?" Barry manages, forcing his shoulders to un-hunch as the wail of sirens moves decidedly closer. 

"Yeah, the Big Apple. You know. Since you're in that neck of the woods already, I figured, why not? As far as I know Mrs. Nutjob doesn't have any ties to your previous job, so as long as that was clean, it shouldn't be a problem." Barry slows to a stop, staring at the ground in confusion.

"What… I'm sorry, what am I doing?" He knows it makes him come off like an idiot, but sometimes it's hard to kick his brain into a gear where he can understand Fuches, and apparently now is one of those times. Sure enough, there is a long and deep sigh on the other end of the line.

"Barry… You're lucky I like you, you know that?" Barry nods dumbly at the slush under his feet. Yes, he knows. "You're gonna take a bus to New York City, and you're gonna burn this guy's wife. Or don't, I don't care, just make him stop calling me. I'll text you his number."

"Wait, his–" Barry starts, but even as he says it, he knows it's too late. Fuches hung up. 

When Barry gets back to the hotel, he gets the tickets from the front desk, goes to his room, locks the door behind him, unlaces his boots, and takes a seat on the end of the bed, probably the only piece of furniture in the room that can support the weight of a human body. When he pulls his phone out of his pocket, there's a single text message. Obviously it's from Fuches, and all it is is a phone number from area code 212, which Barry has seen enough TV to know is New York City. 

He dials the number. 

It rings for what feels like a long time, and then a voice picks up, tense as a coiled wire: " _ You've reached the cell phone of Edward Kaspbrak. Please leave your name, number, and a short message, and I'll get back to you. _ " There is a beep, and suddenly Barry forgets every voicemail he's ever left in his entire life. He pauses, mouth open, for too long, and there's another beep. The line goes dead. 

"Shit," Barry says to the dead air. 

He dials the number again, and this time it goes directly to voicemail. Barry frowns at the hotel room door.

"I'm, uh…" There's a reason Barry doesn't usually talk to the clients. "I'm reaching out to you about a… Contract position you spoke to my… Manager about. Call me back." Barry ends the call, and immediately realizes he didn't leave his number, but that was what Caller ID was for, right? 

That voicemail probably wouldn't be useful as evidence, right? 

"Shit!" Barry says to the empty room again, and as if on cue, his phone starts to buzz. It's the same number that just sent Barry to voicemail twice. He's tempted to do the same for one petty moment, but he can't remember if he set up voicemail on this one or not, so instead, Barry answers the phone.

"Hello?" All he hears on the other end of the line is wheezing, at first. It almost sounds like Fuches had decided to garrote the guy himself. Then it's interrupted by a rattle, a hiss, and then silence. One deep breath out, and then the previous sequence repeats. 

"Are you having an asthma attack?" Barry guesses, frowning. "Should I call an ambulance for you?" Not that he'd know where to send them. At least if the guy dies, he won't bother Fuches anymore, and anybody who's going to call a hit on his own wife probably isn't much of a loss to the world.

"No," the guy croaks, then exhales in a big rush again. "No, I'm… I'm better, I'm fine. I can do this."

"Okay." He does sound better, actually. He still sounds terrified, but he doesn't sound like he's choking to death, so that's kind of like improvement. He also doesn't sound like the kind of clientele Fuches usually works with. They don't usually sound scared. 

"So–"

"Is–"

Both of them start, and stop, at the same time, leaving an awkward silence ringing all the way from Rochester to NYC. 

"Go ahead," Barry says at last, and hears the guy suck a breath in through his teeth. 

"I need you to… That is, I need someone to, and I heard… The reason I called is…  _ Shit. _ " The same rattle, hiss, and deep breath repeats twice. Barry rubs at his forehead.

"Aren't those things stimulants?" He asks without really meaning to. No wonder the guy sounds so uptight. 

"It's fine," the guy gasps. "Mine is… No, it's fine, it's just, I've never done this, you know?"

"I would never have guessed." Barry cringes as soon as it's out there, but to his surprise, the guy chuckles bleakly. 

"Jesus Christ." It sounds muffled, like the guy has his hands over his face. "I want… I  _ need _ my wife… Gone." One of the things Barry does not do, as a rule, is ask prying questions, like why someone wants someone else dead. Fuches had impressed upon him very early that this was a good way to get both of them killed, given the sorts of people Barry usually found himself working for. This guy could not have more clearly been not that type of person, and yet Barry can't make himself ask the question that's burning up his throat.

"You, uh. This isn't the usual kind of… Job I take. How did you get in contact with, um, us?" That's safe, right? That feels safe.

"I have this friend from when I was a kid… Actually she's the only friend I have left from when I was a kid, the rest of them… Anyway, she says you helped her out, or I guess she hired you. Be– Um. Should I not use names?" Barry blinks at the ceiling. 

"I don't usually know their names."

"Client, or um…" Edward Kaspbrak, whose voicemail contains his full name, trails off. 

"Client. Fuches is the one who talks to the clients."

"Did you say 'fugue?'"

"No, he's…" Barry gestures at nothing, at the shitty hotel room in general. "He's the first guy you talked to."

"Oh. Well. This would've been Chicago, maybe five years ago? Or was it six. Anyway, you, uh, her husband." Oh. No, actually, Barry does remember. She'd asked for it to be quick and clean, Fuches had told him. Painless. After overhearing how he talked to her on the phone… It hadn't been. "And this isn't the same thing, I mean, it's not like she beats me, it's just–" Whatever comes after that is lost in the sudden wind whistling in Barry's ears, but it doesn't really matter what comes after 'my spouse doesn't beat me' if  _ that _ is followed by a 'but.'

"I'll do it," Barry cuts in. "I'll kill your wife."

Mr. Kaspbrak is abruptly silent. Barry can't hear him so much as breathe anymore. 

"Oh," the guy says at last. "Uh, thanks."

"You're welcome?" Barry tries, and immediately regrets it. Yeah, there's a reason Fuches does the talking. "Okay, I have a bus ticket for–" he pulls it out to check "–Jesus, six in the morning, so once I get in, I'll get a hotel, I'll call you, we can discuss the details. When is good tomorrow morning?" New York's a small state, right? 

"A bus ticket?" The guy asks instead. "Where are you?" 

"Rochester," Barry says before he can think better of it, but all Mr. Kaspbrak does is make a noise that might kind of resemble a laugh if you gutted it and hung it up to dry. 

"That's a six hour trip with no traffic, man." Well, fuck. Barry is already having second thoughts, but in the back of his mind he can hear Mr. Kaspbrak's voice:  _ it's just, it's just, it's just _ . 

"Let's call it 2 pm, then." 

Maybe he'll be able to get some sleep on the bus.

Barry ends up getting just over half an hour of sleep on the bus before his phone starts buzzing away in his pocket. When he pulls it out to look at it, very regretfully, the number from New York is staring back at him. 

"Oh, it's too early for this," Barry mutters, but he answers the phone anyway, because he's a fucking professional. 

"Mister, uh… Edward," Barry adjusts hastily, glancing at the old lady in the seat next to him. She looks asleep, but she could be faking it; being old doesn't make you harmless. Actually, Barry isn't sure she isn't dead...

"What the fuck," Edward hisses into the phone, snapping Barry's attention back like an elastic. "I thought you said you didn't know names! I didn't tell your boss my name!"

"He's not my boss," Barry says automatically. "And, uh, you did send me to voicemail. Twice. When I called you. And that. Had your name. On it." The guy exhales audibly.

"Oh, fuck, I forgot."

"It's okay, I can just–"

"Call me Eddie. Fuck it. Nobody calls me Edward, call me Eddie." A name and a voice. They're almost friends. This might be the most Barry has talked to someone who isn't Fuches in… Well, a long time. That's depressing. 

"Okay, Eddie… I've only been on the bus for–" he takes the phone away from his face to check the time and sighs, "–two hours. I'm not really in a good place to talk about–"

"I wanna cancel the hit." Barry stares blankly at the seat back in front of him.

"What? Why?" It's been less than eight hours since he last spoke to Eddie, and Eddie doesn't sound like he's slept for any of them. Barry had thought he sounded tense on the voicemail; apparently that was nothing. 

"She's my  _ wife _ , man. I don't know what I was thinking, I, I made a promise to love, honor and obey–"

"You did?" Barry mutters incredulously, but it doesn't seem to break Eddie's stride.

"–And just because she, what, she  _ wants to take care of me _ , I'm trying to, to… Oh my God." Eddie's breathing is starting to whistle between his words, and he breaks off, immediately followed by the sound of the inhaler. Rattle, hiss, deep breath. At the second deep breath, Barry figures maybe he can get a word in now. 

"What do you mean, take care of you?" He asks cautiously. He knows what it'd mean to  _ him,  _ of course, but somehow he doesn't think Eddie's wife is trying to kill him. Eddie's breath leaves him in a rush, and Barry can almost picture him, deflated completely, sitting on the floor maybe. Not that Barry has any idea what he looks like. 

"She's a nurse. That's how we met, she was taking care of my mom in hospice. So she… She just wants me to stay healthy, and there's all this stuff I can't eat, stuff I know I shouldn't do, she takes care of my meds for me… Oh my God, what was I thinking, she  _ loves _ me, and I made a promise–"

" _ Eddie _ ," Barry cuts in, alarmed as how quickly the guy's breathing is picking up speed again, "I don't want to be rude, so… How do I put this. Why did you call me in the first place?" The man on the other end of the line is silent for longer than Barry has heard him be silent so far. If it wasn't for the ragged quality of his breathing, he'd think the line had gone dead.

"I don't know how else to get away from her," Eddie admits, small and scared, and Barry is struck by how much he actually  _ wants _ to kill this man's wife. 

"Why don't I call you when I find a hotel, okay? You just sit tight, wherever you are, and try to get some sleep. Okay, Eddie?" 

"Okay," Eddie whispers, and then he hangs up. Barry doesn't sleep for the rest of the trip. 

Barry shoulders the door to his room open, kicks it closed behind him, drops his backpack on the floor, and collapses on the bed. He's been in New York City for a handful of hours and he's already decided he fucking hates it here. Every last inch of the place and its shitty traffic jams and its asshole drivers and its expensive-ass hotels. Not this one, of course, not on his budget. The duvet he's buried his face in smells disturbingly organic, Barry realizes, and he rolls over onto his back like that'd help.

Barry's been here less than five minutes, and he's already desperate to get out. He dials Eddie's number.

Eddie picks up on the first ring.

"Hello?" He asks, his voice thick with sleep. There's rustling, on the other end of the line, sheets on skin. Barry doesn't even know what this guy looks like, so why is Barry trying to picture him in bed?

"Uh… Sorry, did I wake you up?" A soft exhale, maybe a chuckle that wasn't quite awake yet itself.

"Yeah. It's fine, I probably needed to  _ Jesus fucking Christ, it's three?! _ " Barry glances at the clock on the bedside table, which is blinking all zeroes, and frowns. When he pulls the phone away to check, though, yeah. 

"Apparently. You were right, by the way, traffic sucked, and that was the longest bus ride ever." Getting a hotel hadn't been a picnic, either. Finding one that fit into Fuches's budget had taken Barry both more time and more distance walking than he'd wanted. He has no idea what part of New York he's in now, but it has a smell and Barry doesn't like it. 

"My three favorite words." Eddie pulls the phone away to yawn. What did– Oh, 'you were right.' Barry catches his reflection in the mirror across from the bed, and to his surprise, he's smiling. Disconcerted, he pushes himself up and out of bed.

"Are you feeling any better than this morning?" Barry asks, trying to steer the conversation back to where it should be.

"Yeah, thank you. Sleep was… Do you ever get this thing where you can't do anything for yourself unless someone tells you to do it?" Barry freezes completely, but Eddie continues, oblivious. "I get that a lot, if you couldn't tell, so. Thank you. Again."

"You're welcome," Barry manages, turning abruptly away from the mirror and his stupid expression reflected in it.

Hey, can I ask you a question?" Eddie starts, then continues without waiting for an answer, "how did you even get into this? Wait, shit, sorry, am I not supposed to ask stuff like that?"

"Stop asking me what you're supposed to do, I'm not Dear Hitman Abby. I keep telling you, I'm usually not allowed to talk to the clients." Barry realizes he's pacing, and stops, and then realizes what he just said. That wasn't what he meant to say. 

"What do you mean, you're not allowed?" Eddie asks. Barry definitely regrets telling him to get his shit together. 

"It's just a bad idea, okay? People find me  _ off-putting _ , that's fine, I'm usually there to kill their friends. It's bad for business."

"You're not off-putting. That other guy was a dick in like six different ways, but you're not. Do a lot of people tell you that you're off-putting?" Jesus, Eddie sounds  _ concerned _ . What the fuck is this?

"I don't talk to 'a lot of people,'" Barry snaps, wondering distantly when he started to get angry at this conversation. 

"Why not? I mean, I know what I'm like, but you, you've been nice."

"I'm not  _ nice _ ." Barry blew a stranger's brain out less than twenty-four hours ago, Barry is not a nice person, Barry can live with that just fine.

"You are, though. Who tells you you're not?" Somehow this whole thing has gotten way out of control. Barry doesn't talk to clients, and Barry  _ definitely _ doesn't talk about himself, and Barry  _ absolutely _ should not be talking to a client about himself. He's got to turn this thing around.

"Look, Fuches took care of me, you know? After my discharge. He pulled me out of a pretty dark place, gave me a purpose. He still takes care of me. I owe him a lot. He's gone through a lot for me." 

Barry has not turned this thing around at all. On the other end of the line, Eddie makes a soft noise, a thoughtful hum, and Barry isn't sure why.

"That's funny, that's… That's kind of how I used to feel about Myra." Barry feels a shudder ripple through his whole body.

"It's not the same thing at all," he says hoarsely. It's  _ not. _

"No, I know, I know… I mean, I assume, it's just… She always brings up the shit I went through after my mom died, and all the work she put into helping me, and I just… It's like she can tell when I'm thinking about leaving, and that's when she keeps reminding me what I was like without her, and I just…"

"You're stuck," Barry says. How is he supposed to leave someone who's given him so much of his life? 

_ Her _ life. 

This is supposed to be about Eddie.

_ Fuck _ , Barry shouldn't be talking to this guy.

"Yeah."

"Eddie." Barry takes in a deep breath, staring at his expression in the mirror until it flattens back out into the face he's used to seeing. "Do you want me to kill your wife?"

"I do." Eddie's voice is soft and intent. Barry shivers. 

"Okay," Barry says, after too long a silence, and he gets the conversation back on track. 

They talk rates (Barry agrees to what he's pretty sure the Chicago job had cost), timing (Eddie has apparently told Myra he had a work trip and rented a hotel room for a week in one of the more nonsensical attempts at an alibi Barry has heard of, and Barry hates New York, so tomorrow night sounds like the best plan) and method (Eddie doesn't want to know, and Barry figures he'd better keep his distance. He's never been sure if it's sexist or not, but he always feels a little weird about killing women). It's the most professional conversation he's had with Eddie so far, and definitely the longest conversation he's had with anybody but Fuches for years. When he glances out the window, Barry is startled to see that it's gone dark outside.

"You sound like you need a nap yourself," Eddie observes after the fourth or fifth time Barry interrupts himself with a yawn. That's probably true. He's slept less than an hour in the last thirty-six. Of course, he can go for longer, and he has, but that doesn't mean he likes it. It's not like this job needs to be rushed. He can afford a little sleep. "I'll text you our address and, uh. Do you need like a picture?" Barry makes an affirmative noise. Now that he's acknowledged his own exhaustion, he can feel it creeping up on him, and slowly, he tips over across the bed where he's been sitting. 

"Sweet dreams," Eddie says, which is kind of weird, but Barry drifts off before he can think of a response.

In the morning, because Barry forgot to set an alarm and then slept for  _ fourteen fucking hours _ , Barry calls calls Fuches and gets the name of a guy who will sell him a rifle. It's less of an arms dealer situation and more of a pawn shop, but Fuches assures Barry that the guy is very trustworthy. He also seems surprised that Barry has agreed to take the job at all, which Barry doesn't have a good explanation for. Fortunately, Barry is saved from having to explain when his screen lights up with another incoming call.

"I gotta go," he says, and hangs up before Fuches can get in a response, then puts the phone back to his ear. "Hey, Eddie." 

"Don't do it." Barry's heart does something funny and unpleasant in his chest. Eddie does not sound like he had yesterday afternoon, sleepy and warm. Eddie doesn't sound like he just woke up, Eddie sounds like he never went back to bed, like he spent the night drinking or crying. Probably both. In the wake of Barry's stunned silence, he can hear Eddie sniffling.

"Please," Eddie sobs, and Barry rubs at his sternum like that can stop the ache. 

"What happened?" Barry asks, taking his seat on the end of the bed.

"Myra called to say good night and ask me how the conference was going, and I fed her this enormous pile of bullshit, and she told me how much she missed me, how much she loved me and wished I was there with her, how she can't sleep knowing I'm not right next door, and she  _ loves _ me, what the fuck am I doing?" Barry has never known what to do around other people's emotional outbursts. Mostly, they just make him uncomfortable. He's never had as many of them as it seems like he's supposed to. It's never seemed  _ safe  _ to have as many feelings as other people seem to, even before this, before Afghanistan. Listening to people freak out has always made Barry want to get the fuck away from them, but listening to Eddie, Barry wants to hold him. 

"I couldn't sleep," Eddie barrels on in the absence of a response, "every time I closed my eyes I saw Myra's face, with this, this hole in her forehead, or lying still in a casket, or just… Her face sloughing off, however long that takes, noseless, yellowing skin sagging as everything rots out from under it, one eye half-collapsed in her face, the other sliding down her cheek, and her mouth, black and drooling and toothless and still calling out to–"

" _ Eddie! _ " Barry is shocked silent by the vehemence of his own voice, and apparently Eddie is as well. He can't remember the last time he's heard his own voice crack, but he can't listen to Eddie freaking out another second without… Barry clears his throat, willing that tight feeling to go away.

"Did you eat?"

"Are you  _ kidding _ , I'm not hungry, I don't, I don't trust the food here, you never know with commercial kitchens, they just, they throw anything in there, you don't know what you're getting, I–"

"Eddie," Barry says again, trying to sound firm. "Call up room service and order a fucking cheeseburger or something."

"I can't have a fucking cheeseburger, asshole, Myra says–"

"Fuck her," Barry snaps. Eddie finally falls silent. "I don't give a fuck what Myra says, that woman doesn't give a shit about you. Put me on speaker and call room service right fucking now." 

There's a quiet click, and the sounds of the room get a little clearer. A rustle, a dial tone, soft beeping, and then a pleasant, tinny customer service voice, too quiet for Barry to pick up words. 

"Hi, yeah, can I get room service?" He hears Eddie ask. "Do you guys do like a burger?"

The tinny voice squawks. 

"Oh, right, yeah, it's breakfast hours. Uh… you know what–"

"Pancakes?" Barry suggests before Eddie can hang up on room service. 

"Waffles," Eddie decides, then, "can I get waffles, please? Okay, that sounds good. Bacon. Fruit. No, actually, fuck it. Hashbrowns. Scrambled, and make sure they're completely cooked. Yes. Coffee. No. Yeah, thank you. Okay. Thank you." There's another quiet click as Eddie hangs up the phone again, and in the silence Barry can hear him breathing. Still a little sniffly but no wheezing. He'll take it.

"So that was really specific," he points out. Eddie makes a disbelieving noise, just a little watery.

"Do you have any idea what eating undercooked eggs can do to you? There's a reason they have to have warnings on restaurant menus." 

"Not the eggs," Barry says, a little charmed despite himself, "the… Face." 

"Oh," Eddie says, deflated. "That. Um. I guess it is. There's this recurring nightmare I've had, ever since I was a kid, and... Do you ever get this, like, sick feeling that there's something that happened to you once, and you can't look right at it because you'll never be okay again?" Barry frowns. 

"Yeah, doesn't everyone?" 

"Is that a joke?" Eddie asks after a brief pause, startlingly angry. "Are you fucking with me?" Alone in his hotel room, Barry shakes his head.

"No, I'm not… I don't really make jokes," he says, and then, unable to stop himself, "I don't really have a sense of humor. I can't remember the last time I actually laughed at something, so you can kind of assume I'm not laughing at you, because I'm not sure I know how to anymore." 

This time, the pause is much, much longer. 

"Are you… Okay?" Eddie asks hesitantly, and Barry lets himself sprawl back over the hotel room duvet, staring at the ceiling. 

"Are you?" Unexpectedly, Eddie laughs, a small exhalation of sound. 

"I'm trying to hire someone to  _ kill my wife _ , man, no. I'm not okay."

"Barry," Barry says without really thinking about it. 

"What?"

"Barry," he repeats.

"Like, alive? Or do you mean afterward?" Utterly lost, Barry stares up at the ceiling in confusion. There's a water stain on the ceiling that kind of looks like an… Oh,  _ bury. _

"No, with an 'a.' My name. Barry."

"Oh," Eddie says after a moment. "Hi, Barry." Barry smiles up at the splotchy ceiling. 

"Hi, Eddie," Barry answers, feeling an unfamiliar warmth growing under his ribs. Before he can say anything else, there's a sharp knock on the other end of the line.

"That's the food," Eddie says, fabric rustling. Barry imagines him pushing himself upright in bed. "I gotta go."

"Call me back." Eddie promises he will, and ends the call. Barry laces his fingers behind his head and considera following his own advice, but somehow he doesn't think this hotel does room service. Hell, he'd be a little concerned for the safety of any hapless pizza guys he called for delivery, but… Barry's stomach growls, and he decides, fuck it. Somewhere has to be delivering at nine in the morning.

Eddie calls back just as Barry is closing the door after the UberEats guy. He sets the bag down on the dresser and dives to yank his phone off the charger before it can go to voicemail (or not, he still hasn't checked if it's set up or not).

"Hey Eddie," he answers.

"Kill my wife," Eddie says, immediate and decisive. Then, less so: "uh, please."

"Okay," Barry says slowly, nonplussed. "I take it you feel better, then?"

"I feel fucking fine, Barry. I just ate two waffles, and bacon, and I put syrup in my coffee because I realized I fucking hate black coffee, and I feel fucking fine. No hives, no anaphylaxis, no st–"

"Anaphylaxis?" Barry breaks in. "Did you get something you're alle–"

"No, that's the whole fucking point. Jesus, keep up." Muffled footsteps. Eddie must be pacing. "We figured out I was allergic to all this shit, and there's everything my mom told me would kill me, but like,  _ would it? _ Am I actually allergic to any of this shit? I have zero memory of ever getting tested, so I just decided,  _ fuck it _ , and, and… Strawberries!"

"Strawberries?" Barry repeats blankly.

" _ Fucking _ strawberries, we always thought I was allergic to strawberries, and whenever Myra eats them, which she does a  _ lot _ , actually, she keeps them in the crisper drawer that I'm not allowed to use because cross-contamination is a  _ thing _ , whenever she eats them, she won't let me anywhere near her, tells me  _ it's for your own good, Eddie-Bear _ , well  _ fuck that _ ."

"Did you eat something that's going to kill you?" Talking to Eddie kind of feels like getting run over by a train and dragged to the next station. 

"Jesus, Barry. No, I ate a fucking strawberry, and I feel fucking fine. I ate waffles an hour ago and I  _ still _ feel fucking fine, and if I'm not fucking allergic to strawberries, what else isn't wrong with me? It's the fucking gazebos all over again, man, nothing has fucking changed, and I need to fucking be free of Myra."

"So the hit's back on?" Barry clarifies, just in case.

"Yeah, the hit's back on." Eddie exhales sharply. 

"I don't want to overstep, here, but it kind of seems like you're going through a lot right now," Barry understates. "Is there, I don't know, a friend you can stay with for a little while? It'll help your alibi. Or. Establish one at all." It's probably the right call, isn't it? Eddie should be talking to a shrink, or at least a friend, not a stranger he keeps hiring and un-hiring to take out his wife.

"I don't have any friends," Eddie says flatly. "Mom was my only family, and I haven't had friends since I was a kid."

"Come on–"

"I lost all of my friends in the summer of '89. All of them, except for Bev, and we don't really talk to each other anymore." Barry frowns, watches his reflection in the mirror frown back.

"What do you mean, like… They didn't want to be friends with you anymore? Why not?" An idea comes to him, half-baked, and immediately Barry tries to stuff it back into the box it popped out of. Off the top of his head, he can think of maybe one or two reasons a kid might lose all of his friends at once, and it feels kind of inappropriate but there's one in particular Barry finds himself hoping for. One that also coincides neatly with being desperate to get out of a loveless marriage. Does that make Barry an asshole?

"No, they. They died." Immediately, Barry knows that, yes, he's an asshole. "I think they died, I can't really remember."

"Fuck, man, you can't have been more than…" Barry realizes that he has no idea how old Eddie is, and it comes as a bit of a shock. "Fifteen or sixteen?" He guesses. A little older than Barry would have been.

"Close," Eddie says dryly. "I was thirteen. We all were." Basically Barry's age, then. He tries to think about what it would be like to lose an entire group of friends at that age, but finds himself at a loss to remember even one friend from back then. Did he not have friends? He had friends in the service, up until he got discharged, but… Did he really have no other friends?

"Shit."

"Yeah."

"And you can't remember anything about what happened?" Maybe that's for the best? Barry feels like he'd want to know. Maybe. 

"That's the  _ thing _ I told you about, Barry. The thing I can't look at. I don't even think I want to know, to tell you the truth. Sometimes I can feel it trying to crawl back into my brain, and sometimes I feel like I ought to let it in, but I don't know who I'd be if I did. I don't think I could look straight at it and stay the same person."

All Barry can hear is the howling of the wind, until, as though watching from outside, he sees himself open his mouth to speak.

"I killed a guy," is what spills out, and Barry finds himself unable to stem the tide of words. "In Afghanistan. I mean, I killed a lot of people, I was a Marine, that was my job, but this guy was a civilian. I hadn't. I knew that people had families, obviously, I'd just never killed a man while his widow screamed at me before. And he didn't… It was the wrong guy. My friend was hurt, and all I cared about was making someone pay, and it was the wrong guy. And the worst part is, I got away with it. No investigation. Nothing. Just an honorable discharge." The winds recede, and in their absence Barry feels hollow. 

"Fuck," Eddie says. Barry doesn't know what to make of his tone. He definitely doesn't sound scared. 

"I've never told that story, not the whole thing." He shouldn't have told it now, either.

"Thank you," Eddie says sincerely, and it throws Barry off so badly that, before he knows what he's doing, he hangs up. The phone doesn't ring again. 

Barry leaves his breakfast on the dresser, untouched, and goes to see a man about a gun.

Barry probably shouldn't have been surprised that Fuches's contact turns out to be a dick. He'd had guns, yeah, but the only one in both Barry's price range and remotely acceptable condition was a fucking Bushmaster with a cracked scope. At least he'd thrown in a violin case, or maybe it was a viola case… at any rate, Barry looks like an asshole, he's sure, but at least now he has a fucking gun, and can actually do the job he was hired for without resorting to his backup knife.

He gets back across town to his shitty hotel around sundown, and the sight of his abandoned breakfast reminds him that he has once again forgotten to eat for an entire day. The eggs are a nasty, cold mess by now, and the room's microwave is of course broken, but Barry'd had worse in the service, and he chokes it down anyway. Can't have both shaky hands and a shitty gun; even he can't shoot straight in some conditions. 

Barry's just finished stomping the takeout container into the tiny garbage can when his phone starts to buzz. He freezes, torn. On the one hand, it's been a few hours, and Eddie is about on schedule to have a panic attack and cancel the job again. On the other hand, however, is the warmth of Eddie's voice saying ' _ hi, Barry _ ,' and the sincerity of his  _ 'thank you.' _

The phone stops buzzing.

"Fuck," Barry says to his silent room. Well, at least that decides–

The phone lights up again almost immediately, and this time, Barry picks it up.

"Did you know your voicemail hasn't been set up yet?" Eddie snaps, and incredibly, Barry feels a line of tension in his shoulders start to loosen. 

"Yeah," he sighs. "I know."

"Well then, maybe you should think about fixing that." Barry catches sight of his own broad smile in the mirror, and turns away. "At any rate, I'm calling because–"

"You want to cancel the hit," Barry guesses, and Eddie's silence does the talking for him, but not for long.

"I just, I can't stop thinking that Myra doesn't deserve this. I'm the one with the problem, I should be removing myself from the equation, not her. Maybe… Maybe it'd be easier if I hired you to kill me instead."

Instantly, Barry's mind is freed from all thought except that one horrible concept, tumbling around like a shoe in a dryer. 

"Is–"

"Where are you?" Makes it out of his mouth before he can hold it in. On the other end of the line, Eddie takes in a startled breath.

"I didn't mean like _right_ _now_ , I–'

"I'm not going to kill you," Barry sighs, rubbing at his forehead. This is all coming out wrong, made even worse because Eddie didn't even sound  _ scared _ , just  _ inconvenienced.  _

"What do you want to come over for, then? Have a beer and watch the game?" Barry frowns.

"What game?"

"Is that what you got out of that, really? Jesus Christ." Oh, okay, that had been a joke. The other thing might've been a joke too, the thing Barry isn't going to do, Eddie just sounded so  _ hopeless _ . Not now though, now Eddie sounds annoyed. Annoyed is better than hopeless. 

"I'll bring beer, then. We can watch whatever." 

"I'm gluten intolerant." There are some really interesting water stains on this hotel room ceiling, which is fortunate since Barry finds himself spending a lot of time looking heavenward. 

"I'll bring cider," he says instead, even though he's pretty sure that contradicts part of Eddie's earlier revelations. It seems like a workable compromise. Eddie laughs, finally, tense but bright, and slowly trails off into silence as he realizes Barry isn't laughing with him. 

"You are fucking relentless. I see why you come so highly recommended on Hitman Yelp." A short, high-pitched eruption of sound bursts out of Barry's chest, and after a moment of contemplation Barry concludes it must've been a laugh. 

"Is that a yes?" He asks tentatively.

Silence. 

"I feel like I should insist on meeting in a public place. Isn't that what you're supposed to do?" One of the water stains kind of looks like a football. Is it football season? New York has a football team, doesn't it? Flash Gordon was on it. 

"Most clients don't want to meet me at all." The New York Jets, yeah. Are they still a thing?

"Why not?" Eddie asks, apparently offhandedly. Barry lets his eyes fall. His hands are about the same color as the carpet, big and square, nails trimmed down to the quick. Harder for blood to get stuck under that way. It always does, though. 

"I guess people don't feel comfortable hanging out with a guy they're paying to kill someone." Barry knows he can come off as a little robotic, but he's not sure what he sounds like now. On the phone, he can hear Eddie's breathing pick up a hint of a wheeze. 

"Okay," Eddie says, and then the line is silent. When Barry pulls the phone away from his ear, it flashes that the call has ended. and then goes black. 

"Shit," Barry sighs to himself, brow furrowed. For a minute there he'd almost managed to convince himself that he was making  _ friends _ , somehow, and then Barry had to fuck it up by being a sadsack weirdo. 

When his phone lights up and buzzes a minute later, it startles him badly enough that he almost fumbles it, but once he unlocks the screen, there's a text message from an unsaved but memorized number. Just an address, halfway across town from the waterlogged hotel.

Barry grabs his coat and is out of the room in under a minute. 

Barry is still in the middle of knocking on the door of Eddie's hotel room when, suddenly, it's yanked open from under him, and Barry is finally face-to-face (well, face-to-forehead) with the guy himself. Eddie is compact and visibly frazzled, his shirt tucked in but sleeves rolled up to the elbows, buttoned all the way up but with no tie. He looks exhausted, and as Barry tries to think of something to say, Eddie leans around him, glancing up and down the hallway.

"Are you–" he starts to say, but Eddie shushes him frantically, then wraps his fingers in the collar of Barry's shirt and drags him into the room. Barry stumbles inside. As Eddie locks the door, and the deadbolt, and the chain, he can still feel the phantom pressure of Eddie's knuckles pressed against the hollow of his throat. 

Eddie looks like he hasn't slept in a week, Barry thinks, and then:  _ he's really handsome. _

As was evident from everything else about the building on his way up, Eddie's hotel room is  _ much _ nicer than Barry's. The chairs look like they might actually be comfortable to sit in, and the bed is massive, and neat as a pin. The whole room looks untouched, like nobody has ever slept there in the history of its existence, and definitely not like someone has been having a low-key panic attack there for three days.

Barry skirts the bed to set the six-pack of cider down on the little table by the window, and by the time Eddie manages to peel himself away from the peephole, he's got one cider open for each of them. 

"Are you okay?" He asks, holding out one of the bottles, and Eddie  _ actually _ scoffs as he crosses the room to take it from him. Their fingers brush. Eddie's are warm and damp. Eddie takes a giant gulp and, predictably, chokes on it, so Barry steps in and pounds Eddie carefully on the back until Eddie finally manages to wave him off and get his coughing under control. Barry takes a chair.

"I feel like we just covered this," Eddie croaks.

"I mean…" Barry gestures with his own bottle, taking a much more careful sip. "At the door, the whole…"

"I had to make sure you weren't followed." Barry snorts incredulously 

"By  _ who _ ?" Apparently at a loss, Eddie makes a sound of frustration and sits heavily at the end of the bed, raking his free hand back through his hair. It looks soft, clean. A little curly. Barry's hair would do that, he thinks, if he ever let it get long enough, but he can't remember the last time he let his hair grow long enough for it to curl.

"Look," Barry tries after a few long seconds of Eddie staring at the rug and trying to clear his throat, "you're gonna be okay. All right? Trust me." And then Eddie does the thing Barry had kind of been hoping he wasn't going to, and sits straight up to glower balefully back at him.

"Why," Eddie asks flatly. Barry takes another mouthful of cider. This definitely seems like kind of an intense guy, and he's definitely got kind of an intense stare, but Barry doesn't really mind being seen if he gets to stare back. Why is he so sure Eddie's going to be okay? Why does it matter so much to him? He's not quite sure how to put his meaning into words, so Eddie really  _ gets  _ what Barry's trying to tell him.

"Can I try something?" Barry asks instead. Eddie stares at Barry for a little while longer, and Barry stares right back at him, which again, is not a problem in the slightest. 

First things first though, always remember to disarm. Barry ducks his head and tugs up the leg of his jeans high enough to unbuckle and untie his knife and its sheath from around his calf, then nudges it off to the side with his foot. Wouldn't want anybody getting cut.

"Is it gonna hurt?" Eddie's eyebrows knit together and his eyes go wide and abruptly, Barry is troubled by the realization that he probably couldn't hurt Eddie if he was paid to. Carefully, he leans over to put his mostly full bottle back on the damp coaster. 

"I really hope not." Bracing his hands on his knees, Barry pushes himself to his feet and shuffles the few steps over to the end of the bed, gingerly sitting himself back down next to Eddie. He smells nice, clean and not at all like hotel soap, with just a little tang of sweat to keep things interesting. Without looking away from him, Eddie sets his cider down on the floor, then scrubs his hands down the legs of his jeans to scrape away the condensation. 

"Was that it?" Eddie asks, cracking into an anxious sort of half-giggle. His breathing is quicker now, but deep, with none of the wheeze Barry had heard over the phone. Barry shakes his head. 

"I was actually thinking about seeing if maybe I could kiss you," Barry explains haltingly. 

"Oh." Eddie blinks. "You want to kiss me?" 

Barry nods. 

"Do you do that a lot? I mean, with clients, not in general."

Barry shakes his head. 

Eddie chews on his lip, red and sweet.

"Me neither. Neither of them," he admits, then follows it up with another almost-laugh. 

"So…" Barry trails off, caught between not wanting to seem overbearing and not wanting to seem uninterested, though he's not sure at this point if he could seem uninterested if he tried. The hand he touches to Eddie's waist is light, barely any pressure. Eddie leans into the touch. Leans toward him. 

Eddie nods. 

Barry kisses him. 

Barry can feel the grooves worn into Eddie's bottom lip by his front teeth. When he licks gently to soothe them, Eddie makes a broken noise and throws his arms around Barry's neck and one leg over Barry's hips. Barry tightens his grip on Eddie's waist and lets the momentum carry him onto his back, Eddie sprawled half on top of him. 

"Okay so far?" He checks in, wondering if Eddie can feel his dick twitching in the hollow of Eddie's hip. He can definitely feel Eddie's.

"Shut the fuck up and kiss me," Eddie demands, and Barry does, scraping his tongue past Eddie's teeth to lick deep into Eddie's mouth, grunting softly as Eddie sucks on his tongue. Cautiously, he curves his palms down over Eddie's ass, and with very little encouragement they settle into a slow, hard grind. Eddie's tight little body is almost fever-hot in his arms, the kiss wet and deep, Eddie's cock solid and hard against his through their pants. Barry's not sure he can get off like this, he reflects fuzzily, but he's sure as fuck going to give it a go. 

Eddie's arms unlock from around his neck and Barry whines before he can stop himself, but when Eddie pulls back it's to settle himself more solidly across Barry's lap, hips twitching almost of their own accord. Eddie's hands are warm as they drag their way up Barry's shirt. Barry helps toss his shirt further up the bed and settles his hands on Eddie's belt buckle.

"Is this–" 

"Jesus,  _ yes _ , just fuck me already!" The eye-roll kind of sends a contradictory message to the stuttering rolling of Eddie's hips against his (on second thought, Barry might, actually, come from this), but Barry decides to take Eddie at his word and starts to work on Eddie's belt while Eddie swears up a storm and struggles with the buttons of his own shirt. 

At the sound of the knock, both of them freeze. 

_ Room service?  _ Barry mouths at Eddie, who shakes his head vehemently. 

_ Assassins?  _ Eddie mouths back. Barry has no idea how he's supposed to respond to that, and is saved from trying by more pounding on the door, this time accompanied by a shrill voice. 

" _ I know you're in there, Eddie! _ " The voice says, and despite never having heard it before in his life, Barry knows exactly who it belongs to. " _ Eddie-Bear?! _ "

"Yes, Myra?" Eddie answers. Immediately, he claps both hands over his mouth, eyes wide with horror, but he can't stuff the words back in, no matter how hard he looks like he wants to try. 

"Now?" Barry hisses, maybe a little optimistically. He does still have that knife, though nothing about this situation is exactly what he would have planned. Eddie visibly mulls it over, then flinches as his wife pounds on the door again. 

"Not now," he hisses back regretfully, rolling off of Barry to fumble with the buttons of his shirt. "Coming, Myra!" He calls out as he shuffles toward the door. Unsure of what else he should do, Barry slides off the bed and books it to the bathroom, easing the door almost all the way shut right as Eddie hurries to admit Hurricane Myra to the room.

"Thank God, Eddie, I've been so frightened!" Is the first thing out of her mouth as she comes sweeping in. She doesn't seem to be talking directly to Eddie, actually, squinting around the room instead.

"What are you doing here?" Eddie asks weakly. Barry can't see his face through the crack, but he sounds drained in a way Barry hasn't heard him sound yet. It sets Barry's teeth on edge.

"I got worried! You sounded so strange when you called last night, and then when I called the Radisson in Detroit, they said there was no conference there, and the airline told me you'd missed your flight, and  _ what was I supposed to think, Eddie?! _ "

"I–" Eddie starts, and Myra whips back around to face the room door. In Barry's mind, Eddie is pressed back against it, holding the handle for support. Fighting with the urge to flee.

"I thought you'd been  _ kidnapped _ , Eddie! You haven't answered any of my calls! I went to the police–" Barry's heart skips a beat, "–but they told me it was soon to file a missing persons report, so I had to track your phone  _ myself! _ I drove all the way across town, thinking all this time something  _ terrible _ must have happened to you, only to find out you'd been hiding in a hotel room for two days? For God's sake, you didn't even take all of your medications with you, what if something had happened?"

Holy shit, Barry thinks, what must it be like when both of them feel like arguing? But Myra just keeps going, relentless, and Eddie doesn't say anything, and doesn't say anything, and instead Barry starts to wonder if Eddie ever feels like he can talk back after all.

" _ Eddie _ ," Myra snaps, and Barry presses his face back to the crack in the door. Her whole posture has changed in a second, from pleading to demanding. "Look at me when I'm talking to you. You can't even look me in the eye, can you?  _ Can you? _ "

There's no answer from Eddie.

"Look at you, you sad excuse for a man. Hiding from your own  _ wife. _ Your poor mother spent her whole  _ life _ trying to protect you, and I have given you the best years of mine, and all you do is take, take, take. You ingrate."

"Myra," Eddie breathes, barely audible from where Barry is eavesdropping, and the woman explodes. 

" _ How dare you raise your voice to me, Edward. You were nothing when I met you, and you're nothing now. You  _ **_little_ ** _ – _ "

"You can't talk to him like that." The room falls silent, and Barry realizes it's because he's spoken, loud enough to be heard over the sound of the wind. Slowly, he swings the door outward, watches the woman's eyes rake down his body, catching on his bare torso. 

"Who the hell do you think you are?" Myra asks him, crossing her arms over her own chest like she's embarrassed for Barry's. Barry looks at Eddie for guidance, any kind of input, but Eddie is throwing himself across the room to the nightstand, scrabbling through the drawer until he comes up with a blue plastic inhaler and starts shaking it wildly. 

"I'm his boyfriend," Barry decides, and the inhaler thuds into the wall and rattles down behind the bed. Now both Kaspbraks are staring at him, which is a mixed bag. 

"Well I'm his  _ wife _ ," Myra spits at him, like this is supposed to be a revelation. 

"Yeah, I know who you are." That catches her off-guard all right. Eddie's eyes haven't moved off of him, but he's not hyperventilating anymore. Just staring, eyes wide and lips parted. 

"I think you're lying," Myra snaps, and that's not really a response Barry expected. "Eddie can't possibly be cheating on  _ me _ with  _ you. _ " In the mirror across the room, he can see himself scrunching his face up in confusion. 

"What, like… Eddie's out of my league? You think I couldn't bag Eddie?" 

"Don't be stupid," Myra hisses, and Barry feels his face slam into a much, much less funny expression. "Eddie isn't  _ gay _ ." 

"Yes he fucking is," someone says, and to everyone's surprise, it's Eddie. Even he seems surprised to have said it, when they both turn to him. Under the pressure of his wife's stare, he visibly buckles a little, but stands firm, staring right back. "I am. I fucking am, Myra, I've been trying to tell you for years and you just  _ won't listen _ . I'm not in love with you and I never have been, and I don't know if I'm gonna love him, but goddammit I want to fuck him, which is a whole fucking lot more than I can say for you. I don't want to fuck you, I've never wanted to fuck you, and I never will want to fuck you, not only because you're a terrible human being and you're  _ oh my God basically my mother _ , but also because  _ I am fucking gay _ , Myra."

The room is dead silent.

Barry fights down the impulse to applaud. 

Eddie looks like he's considering the benefits of fainting. 

Myra draws in a deep breath, bosom heaving like a sailing ship at full mast.

"You can collect your things on Monday. I'll be at my sister's. But that's it. I'm keeping the condo. You and your  _ boyfriend _ can figure out somewhere else to live. You'll be hearing from my lawyer."

And then she's gone, slamming the door behind her, and Eddie collapses onto the bed like a puppet with its strings cut. 

"Do you still want me to kill her?" Barry asks, and Eddie lets out a wan laugh, like a balloon losing air. 

"No, I don't."

"Are you sure? I can rethink my policy about freebies." Eddie looks sharply up at him, but at the sight of Barry's half-grin, he starts to smile too. 

"I'm sure. I'm really sure, this time." Eddie rakes his fingers back through his hair, tugging his curls into disarray. "Holy shit, I can't believe I did that. I can't believe  _ you  _ did that."

"Too much?" 

"No." Eddie looks back up at him, grinning full now. "No, it was perfect. Come here." Barry goes there, taking a seat on the bedspread beside him. Eddie loops an arm around his waist and rests his head on Barry's shoulder. It's a little weird, but it's comfortable. Barry never wants to move.

"Do you want to…?" Eddie starts, then loses his nerve. Under his arm, Barry can feel Eddie shiver. "You know. What you said. Um, boyfriends." Barry thinks about it for a second.

"I kind of live in Cleveland, but I'm not attached to it." He's not attached to much of anything, come to think of it, but he can see himself getting attached to Eddie. More attached. Fuches isn't going to like it, but Fuches could stand to get used to not having everything he wants.

"Do you maybe still want to fuck me?" Barry asks, because Eddie is close, and smells nice, and he's thumbing at the far side of Barry's waistband, and the sense memory of cupping Eddie's perfect ass in his hands is already kind of getting Barry going again. Eddie's other hand lands high up on Barry's thigh, and that's probably a good sign.

"Did you bring… You know," Eddie hedges. Barry does not know, and his expression probably tells Eddie that. 

"Protection," Eddie says, then glances at Barry's unstrapped knife and sighs. "Sexual. I mean. Condoms, do you have condoms?" 

"No." Barry frowns. "I didn't know I was going to need them. Honestly I wasn't even planning to kiss you until you opened the door and I saw your face." 

"Thanks," Eddie responds, then frowns right back at him. "Wait, but you brought a  _ knife _ ?"

"That wasn't for you! I told you I wasn't going to hurt you!"

"Technically you only told me you weren't going to  _ kill  _ me," Eddie points out, and Barry considers reversing his decision. 

"Jesus," he mutters, stretching out a leg to kick the knife out of sight under the bed. "New York City is a dangerous place, all right? I'm not going to just walk around at night unarmed." 

"You're a  _ hitman _ ," Eddie points out, like Barry doesn't know. 

"I don't have  _ superpowers _ ," Barry counters incredulously. "I'm not Deadpool, I just kill people for a living. That's it, that's all we have in common." Suddenly, it's actually hard to keep a straight face, as Eddie dissolves in laughter against his side. Barry can't remember the last time he felt like this, light and warm and, if not loved, then definitely solidly  _ liked _ . 

"Are you done?" Barry asks, thinking  _ please never be done laughing like that for me _ , and Eddie sits up to kiss him. He still tastes sweet, like cider and mouthwash, which is not actually a great combination, but Barry can definitely see himself growing to appreciate it. The first brush of Eddie's tongue is soft, tentative, and Barry opens to it readily. They kiss for what feels like a long time, embracing loosely, and when they eventually break apart Barry has to pause to catch his breath. 

"Can I blow you?" He blurts out. Eddie freezes, but when Barry begins to pull back, concerned, Eddie digs in his fingernails where they're wrapped around Barry's arms. 

"Look, I uh… I haven't so much as kissed a boy since I was thirteen. I might have some… Issues." Barry pulls Eddie in again, relieved when Eddie's hands slide around to link behind his back. 

"That's okay. No fluid contact, I get that. How do you feel about, um…" Barry gropes around for the right word, and the best he can come up with is somehow, "hand stuff?"

"'Hand stuff?'" Eddie echoes, muffling his snicker against Barry's collarbone. "Are we twelve?"

"Hey–" Eddie's grip stays firm, his face hidden against Barry's chest but warm to the touch, his ears bright red. 

"Yes, okay, I want to do 'hand stuff' with you. I'm sorry. Get back here," Eddie snaps. When he tips his face back up, Eddie is in fact scarlet down to the collar of his poorly buttoned shirt. Barry kisses him again, almost familiar by now, lets his hands drift up under the back of Eddie's untucked shirt, to the skin above Eddie's waistband. 

"Clothes off?" Barry suggests, trying not to sound too hopeful. Eddie nods, and they separate briefly to struggle out of whatever's left of their clothing, then tangle back together in the middle of the bed like parting for even that long had been a hardship. Eddie ends up braced over Barry on his knees and elbows, cock twitching as it swells against Barry's thigh. Barry reaches down to palm it, feel the weight and heat of it in his hand. Above him, Eddie hisses sharply against his throat.

"I might not," Eddie starts, then stutters off into a groan as Barry tightens his grip and begins to stroke. "I was close before, I might… Jesus  _ fuck _ you feel so good." Barry tangles his free hand in Eddie's hair, which is just as soft as advertised, and tugs him back down to kiss. Eddie is a wreck almost immediately, shivering and panting against Barry's lips. 

"Yeah," Barry murmurs incoherently into Eddie's mouth. "Yeah, yeah…" He swipes his thumb over the head of Eddie's cock and finds it weeping, swallows Eddie's sharp moan. No, this isn't going to last long for either of them. Barry can feel his hips twitching helplessly upward, caged in by Eddie's smooth thighs, the occasional brush of his own wrist more of a torment than anything else. 

"You feel so  _ good, _ " Eddie cries out, sounding overwhelmed, and tucks his face against the curve of Barry's neck. His hips are moving in little twitches and circles, unable to keep up a real pattern.

"Come on me," Barry urges him, only half paying attention to the words he's saying. Every breath now is leaving Eddie's lungs as a groan. "Let me make you feel good, that's it. Give it up for me, baby, please." With a rough, startled noise, Eddie does, his frantic movements going completely still as he comes, across Barry's chest and his cock, pooling in the hollow of his hip and dripping down his balls.

Barry doesn't quite manage to swallow the noise he makes as Eddie sits back on his heels, sharp and desperate, but before he can say a word, sweet, merciful Eddie curls a hand around him in a tight grip. The slick, wet sound of Eddie's hand on his cock is almost unbearably obscene. He throws an arm over his face, hiding from Eddie's intent look, but Eddie's free hand tangles with his, presses it back to the bedspread. 

"Look at me," Eddie urges him. "I want to see your eyes."

Barry's orgasm hits him like a freight train and he seizes up, back arcing, pinned firmly at the straining hips and hand by Eddie's steady weight. Eddie strokes him through it, pulling the aftershocks out of him one after the other until it's too much and Barry has to bat Eddie's hand away from his softening cock. Eddie sits back with an expression halfway between pleased and disgusted. Barry follows his gaze down and, sure enough, he's striped with white in strands and pools, from his chest down to his hips. Eddie, on the other hand, is somehow almost entirely pristine, with the exception of the sticky right hand he's frowning at. 

Distantly, Barry becomes aware that he's grinning like an idiot.

"This is what 'no fluid contact' looks like to you?" Eddie asks skeptically, waving his sticky hand at the mess, and Barry cracks up laughing so hard he almost throws Eddie off the bed. 

Eddie corrals them swiftly into the shower, although Barry is pretty sure it wasn't quick enough to entirely keep him from dripping on the carpet. At their age, there's not much chance of being able to go again so soon, but they stay pressed close together as they wash one another, both unwilling to completely break contact. 

Thoroughly cleaned and dried, they tangle together again under the covers, Eddie's face tucked into the curve of Barry's neck and clinging back just as tightly as Barry holds onto him. Barry stares up at the stain-free ceiling and lets himself think about it. About staying. About being in love with Eddie, not just tonight but for the rest of his life. 

Maybe he can open a real auto parts store. He's learned enough to fake his way through a conversation; how hard could the real thing be? Maybe he and Eddie could move into one of those narrow little houses they have out here. Maybe Eddie would want to get married again, to Barry this time. They could adopt a fluffy little dog and a couple of multi-ethnic children, and Barry could learn to cook food Eddie feels safe eating, and he'll never have to kill anyone again unless they hurt Eddie. 

"I've actually been thinking of switching career tracks," Barry ventures, burying his face in Eddie's hair. Eddie hums drowsily and snuggles in closer. 

Yeah, okay. 

He can do this. 

How hard can it be to quit a job?

**Author's Note:**

> Character Death: Barry killed Mr. Marsh (directly mentioned), and Pennywise definitely ate everyone but Bev and Eddie when they were kids (implied heavily by Eddie, but. Amnesia). Sorry. 
> 
> I'm aware the title is cliche, but I was driving home from work, heard the second verse of the song, and got slapped with a hyperfixation. But hey, I finished Barry!   
> In two days.   
> Holy shit the sad murder man is so sad. 
> 
> Alternate summary: Depression meets anxiety, and they fall in love (you can tell it's love because they make each other laugh).
> 
> Also I don't know why there isn't an Abusive Monroe Fuches tag, but damn. 
> 
> The only reason this isn't titled "I'm Happy to Be Your Back Door Man" is that it felt like false advertising. 
> 
> I'm on Tumblr as whollyunnecessary and you can yell at me if you want. 
> 
> Hey what the fuck is up with Barry's bracelet, when is that going to come up and where does it go in the second season  
> Does he take it off because he feels weird wearing it while he's in a relationship   
> Anyway it's 1 am


End file.
